Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Or a woman overly dramatic.

Billie Myers came and went in 1998 with Kiss The Rain, a pop song whose hook helped cement the power of cliched, vague statements wrapped in feminine self-assuredness. “Kiss the rain whenever you need me,” she sings, reminding her ex-lover that they’re both “under the same sky.” In the accompanying music video, Billie even thrashes in bed, ripping apart her goose-feathered pillows to make for one crazy slow-motion display of betrayal.

See? She’s not happy.

Despite its coffee klatch-ready, Chicken Soup For The Top 40 Soul-inspired aesthetic, Kiss The Rain (off an album titled Growing, Pains …Get it? Like, it hurts?) is an irresistible torch song that perfectly captures the essence of a time period that ushered journaling and a bumper sticker that reads “Just Breathe” into the popular lexicon. The electric guitar loudly reverberates, amping up each verse to be nothing less than colossal. Billie, whose voice is questionably cloaked in a sonic effect that makes her sound like she’s on the end of a phone line, effectively cry-sings, and bless her for it, too, as the song easily becomes the equivalent of tearing somebody a new a-hole. Billie ain’t happy, and she’s going to let you know.

The coolest part of the song? Billie’s singing to a lady. SURPRISE!

HT Contributor Eliot Glazer has tremendously terrible taste in music. But he makes everything sound so damn appealing, so we allow him this soapbox…

On October 31, 2007, I felt I had reached the apex of my obsession with one musician whose signature vocal stylings had been - for years - some of the most downright “ghostly” I’d ever heard (and not in a good way, either). That coupled his foreseeable legacy of having informed American consumers that cotton was, indeed, “the fabric of our lives” resulted in the *necessity* that I dress as Aaron Neville for Halloween. Needless to say, it was a smashing success.

Both karaoke outings and inebriated episodes have allowed me to achieve superstardom among friends and their friends in my dead on impression of Aaron Neville, which I have been doing since high school (before Horatio Sanz, too). How better to explain my fascination with his staccatoed dulcetones or his parsing of every singular note, resulting in a sonic boom of musical teardrops than to just reproduce it myself?

Sure, performing the “Cotton” jingle (as performed by Neville) is always a surefire hit (”The touch…the feel…of cotton, the fabric of our li-hi-hi-hi- hi…ves”). But it’s his timeless, lite FM-ready duet with Linda Ronstadt, I Don’t Know Much, that drives the nail into the proverbial coffin of music meant to accompany a root canal.

The video doesn’t help, either. Whatever tiny planet occupied by a small colony of insects on Aaron’s forehead is not enough to distract from Linda’s completely elementary school librarian ensemble that screams, “My vagina froze over years ago.” And, um, is it *really* necessary for you guys to act out the “timeless lovers” deal? Because on its own, the song is enough to turn stomachs, but having to visually witness Linda’s hand brush against Neville’s brittle jherecurl or our attempting to distinguish whose wrist bracelets is whose (Aaron’s specifically match his sleeveless leather vests) is not only exhausting, but requires us to pay attention to what is essentially a three-minute promo for Precious Moments.

Sure, I can spew venom for miles on Aaron Neville. He is, as far as I’m concerned, Frankenstein’s monster with the voice of a eunuch, and it scares the bejesus out of me. Nevertheless, there isn’t a karaoke establishment in all of New York that doesn’t have “Don’t Know Much” at the ready for when I blow into the joint.

We like to fluff Sir Paul McCartney ’round here, so today we offer a countervailing opinion. Our Bad Music Correspondent Eliot Glazer shall now take Macca down a peg or two. Great, Hidden Track, yet another post about aging Brits.

I like “Feliz Navidad” as much as the next guy, and although my heart lies with Mariah Carey’s go-to-for-the-gays, modern classic “All I Want For Christmas,” the holiday song I can truly call my favorite is, naturally, “Wonderful Christmas Time (All The Best!)” by Paul McCartney and Wings. Honestly, what the shit is this song?

Read on for more on why Eliot wants this song to go the way of Linda…

HT Contributor Eliot Glazer has tremendously terrible taste in music. But he makes everything sound so damn appealing, so we allow him this little soapbox…

Everybody loves a wide-eyed indie starlet with a voice like silk and a penchant for writing airy, eclectic ditties. But someone’s got to tell Feist to give corporate shilling a quick break so we can be reminded of the artist who originally made 1, 2, 3, 4 a quirky breakthrough. Ladies and gentlemen: Coolio.

As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I think back to what it was that made Coolio’s Gangsta’s Paradise the first CD I bought with my own money. What persuaded me to proudly saunter into my local Sam Goody and trade weeks’ worth of allowance for a record that managed to turn gangsta rap into the musical equivalent of swallowable tablets? I don’t know, but whatever the sentiment was, it was one to which everyone seemed to have subscribed.

In 1995, Coolio was on top of his game. Gangsta’s Paradise was one of the most successful singles of all time, and it did a fine job marrying a Stevie Wonder riff with hip hop’s then-omnipresent proclamations of the hardships of street life. There’s also no other song that could so perfectly compliment the image of an arms-folded Michelle Pfeiffer in a leather jacket and Mom Jeans.

But 1, 2, 3, 4 (Sumpin’ New) is the one that really does it for me. If you’re going to trust someone with weird-ass braids to pen a party rap about counting all the way to four and misspelling parentheticals, you leave the job to Coolio.

1, 2, 3, 4, for me, at least, allowed me to realize that such a childish-sounding (albeit stupidly awesome) jam really helped Coolio inherit one of the pussiest titles ever: the second-most kid-friendly rapper beside Will Smith.

HT Contributor Eliot Glazer has tremendously terrible taste in music. But he makes everything sound so damn appealing, so we allow him this little soapbox…

The Isley Brothers are the stuff of legend. As pioneers of marrying funk, soul, and rock and roll, the Cincinnati trio has seen its success span decades. Through good times and bad, and in packs of varying number, the Isleys have most certainly left their stamp on the music industry and continue to churn out hits as the shape of pop music endures further shape-shifting models.

In 1995, Ronald Isley took a gamble — what did he really have to lose? — and teamed up with R. Kelly, releasing the single “Contagious,” for which Isley adopted a pimped-out alter ego named Mr. Biggs. Floating through the pop cultural continuum during a time when gangsta rap equated the machismo factor in urban radio, Isley’s career was rejuvenated by his playing an inexplicably rich and powerful man-king whose woman goes astray in pursuit of R. Kelly’s younger, more virile magic penis (I’ll spare you the obvious pee joke).

Watching Contagious is like peering into a crystal ball that contained a future in which R. Kelly would find stunning success with a repetitive, undeniably silly slow jam and a soapy narrative consistently centered around adultery. But where “Trapped In The Closet” manages to take its viewer/listener straight to downtown Crazyland, “Contagious” remains creepy and bizarre, only in the most enjoyable way possible. Read on after the jump to watch the incredible video…

HT Contributor Eliot Glazer has tremendously terrible taste in music. But he’s an adroit wordsmith, and he’s gonna try to convince us that the bad is really good.

Remember Charlotte Church? She was an absolute wonder, an extremely young, polite, pleasant-looking “opera prodigy” with a voice beyond her years. And, oh, the songs she sang! Church was made for the business of selling music to the naive consumer — her albums were sold in catalogs, retail chains, and even on those commercials with the scrolling song titles that scream, “BUY ME FOR ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT’S DAY!”

Stateside, she drew profit but was never the mammoth cash cow she was in her native England. Much like Robbie Williams, Church has for years attempted to cross over and find success in the old colonies. With the release of 2005’s Tissues And Issues (well played!), the one-time child star decided to follow in the footsteps of fellow successful young female singers (Janet, Britney, Christina…) and release herself from the shackles of not being a giant ho. Thus “Call My Name.”

No doubt one of the best awful pop songs of which I’ve ever been guilty of maintaining on my “Top 25 Most Played” list on the old iPod, Call My Name is Charlotte Church’s call to skanky arms. Embracing that famously ambiguous time frame in pop music during which girls wore ruffles and girdles but were still Grade A slutbags, Church colorfully trades in singing “Go Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” for the opportunity to proclaim a love for the sound of said gentleman’s “belt dropping,” “keys jangling,” and “[our] backs on the wall.” So…what are you trying to tell us?

The video does, however, do justice to the song. The track drips with a falling synth that is so rich, it’s almost a sound effect. And that’s totally cool because, hey, “Ave Maria” this is not. Writhing her tightly packed hips and virtually getting someone to pen “LOOK AT ME!” on each breast, Charlotte carries the song with what is truly a shameful waste of a phenomenal voice in exchange for an ode to boning in the style of the culturally crucial Pussycat Dolls.

Sure, we’ve lost a burgeoning talent. But, at the very least, we’ve gained a cartoonishly brazen pop star whose success has resulted in a tragic journey of excess on the path toward beautifully horrid pop ditties (with the occasional talk show, corn rows, and unplanned pregnancy, natch). I love bad music.

• Charlotte Church’s Call My Name video 
• See also: All the latest posts in the I Love Bad Music archives

HT Contributor Eliot Glazer has tremendously terrible taste in music. But he’s an adroit wordsmith, and he’s gonna try to convince us that the bad is really good.

Way before Sex and the City, Natalie Cole turned Bruce Springsteen’s Pink Cadillac into a girly ode to naiveté, a song about which Carrie Bradshaw might ask (while spread out on her bed, stomach toward the earth and legs kicking in the air), “Will a woman lift up her hood for a guy with a nice ride?”

Frankly, Carrie, even Natalie may not know the answer. But she did pull off one hell of a cover for her 1987 album, Everlasting, and by “one hell” I mean “a terribly cheesed-up record that I can’t help but adore.”

I still remember listening to the song as a kid, turning it up on the boombox at a backyard barbeque so that I could hear it while swimming and playing volleyball. Perhaps it was because the chorus was quite easy to visualize in all its “literal-ness”:

I love you for your Pink Cadillac, crushed velvet seats / Riding in the back, oozing down the street / Waving to the girls, peeling out of sight / spending all my money on a Saturday night

So, let’s see, our protagonist rides in a Pink Cadillac with crushed velvet seats as she shows off the car and its handsome, wealthy driver to her girlfriends in between blowing hard cash? Duly noted. In Pink Cadillac, the aural ornaments reminiscent of Control-era Jam & Lewis mark the song as a guilt-ridden joyride down a road of cartoonishly brash pop radio of 1987. Natalie’s voice — doubled, tripled, and quadrupled against a slew of Max Headroom-ready synths and faux electric guitar licks — does, however, truly hold its own. It’s when she purrs and growls on lines like “Baby, it ain’t your money, ‘cuz I’ve got plenty of that” that one becomes enlightened by the “feisty and fabulous” single-girl shiz.

But, seriously, if a fight broke out between Carrie Bradshaw and Natalie Cole in “Pink Cadillac,” even Sarah Jessica Parker’s horseface would get flattened like a pancake after being mowed down by a caddy (perhaps with Mr. Big at the wheel). Single girls unite! Slip on those Uggs and jump in!

• Click here to watch video of the always-awesome Pink Cadillac

HT Contributor Eliot Glazer has tremendously terrible taste in music. But he’s an adroit wordsmith, and he’s gonna try to convince us that the bad is really good.

As a bona fide legend in the history of popular music, Notorious B.I.G. – he of the well-tailored mushmouth who helped close the bridge between gangsta rap and party jams –  deserves a little R.I.P., don’t you think?

Sure, I’ll Be Missing You was an apropos eulogy of sorts upon Biggie’s passing, but has it really been that necessary to dig up every remaining verse that escaped the man’s mouth before his departure? Well, no. And nothing may prove that point more than the cheesy, dirty video for Nasty Girl, which showcases the lip-syncing talents of Jagged Edge, Usher, and Fat Joe/Big Pun/Heavy D (it’s always a crapshoot when the dude wears sunglasses).

Why why why do I actually enjoy Nasty Girl? It should be a crime, really. The amount of camera time dedicated to our vicarious worship of Diddy (ooh, look’s like someone’s arrived in a glass elevator, and it ain’t Charlie Bucket!) is mildly despicable. And even as Pharrell looks mighty nice all sk8er-gangsta, bandanna wrapped around his neck like a true space cowboy as he mouths lyrics like “pull your g-string down south,” one is quickly reminded that Biggie, perhaps withstanding the chance he might have been afforded to continue shape-shifting the plane of hip hop, really helped catapult being a ho to the mainstream.

When Jagged Edge encourages all the females to “grab [their] titties for B.I.G.,” the stodgy Women’s Studies major in my soul can’t help but hear the cartoonish sound effect of a record scratch and mushroom bomb. Really, ladies? Are you really going to cup and squeeze your boobies as a method of paying tribute to a posthumous music legend? Is slutting out the new eulogy?

Guilty as I may feel to say it, if it means I get to publicly pay homage to a guy who helped define what is arguably the most inventive contemporary genre of music of the 21st century, I’ll tug at my scroat. This one’s for you, Biggie.

• Nasty Girl — Notorious B.I.G. [YouTube]

HT Contributor Eliot Glazer has tremendously terrible taste in music. But he’s an adroit wordsmith, and he’s gonna try to convince us that the bad is really good.

Not until recently did I realize how much I love Anita Baker.

I don’t know what clued me in. I should have realized her brilliantly campy appeal years ago when, while working at a country club, a fellow employee (and unrecognized pop cultural genius) complained about George Michael’s Careless Whispers being played too often throughout the establishment. I questioned her disgust with the song, as I was personally indifferent to it.

“C’mon, dude,” she said, “It’s totally an anthem for pedophiles.”

Read on for more of Eliot’s hilarious romp through Anita Baker’s mind…

HT Contributor Eliot Glazer has tremendously terrible taste in music. But he’s an adroit wordsmith, and he’s gonna try to convince us that the bad is really good.

Now I may not have been a cool kid by any means, but my parents — your everyday liberal Jewish boomers — knew how to keep their oldest son’s musical taste in check.

As a product of the[ir] times, I listened to Carly Simon, Harry Chapin, Carole King, Jackson Browne, Joni Mitchell…basically any North American who owned a musical instrument and experienced mild depression between 1970 and 1982 (one might not necessarily include Billy Joel among those folksters, but one wouldn’t realize that I grew up on Long Island, where knowing all the words to “Scenes From An Italian Restaurant” is as natural as giving the finger on the L.I.E.).

James Taylor was always, and continues to be, a staple of my musical taste. From his genuinely formative early records to his more recent albums that seamlessly compliment the “elegant yet comfortable” interior of a Williams Sonoma, Taylor’s got his routine down to a science. He doesn’t take risks, but there isn’t necessarily anything wrong with that (look at Norah Jones, three records, eight Grammys, and a cool bajillion dollars later). Every summer when JT plays at Jones Beach, my mom drags my dad along who, although he’s as much a fan as I am, often jokes that he should “bring a blanket and pillow” to the show. Ah, some things never change.

Read on for more I Love Bad Music and a fancy, streamable JT track…